


The end crowns the means

by BakedAppleSauce



Series: The desert is a waste of time [30]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alfie Solomons is freaking out, Angst, Break Up, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Lack of Communication, Lack of Self-Reflection, M/M, Minor Violence, all of them mature and healthy, is kicking in, lack of a lot of things really, which means every single asshole instinct he's ever had
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:33:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26729728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakedAppleSauce/pseuds/BakedAppleSauce
Summary: All he meant to do was watch Tommy fuss with his general appearance before marching out the door, make fun of him a bit, but suddenly he can hear himself say,  “Maybe you shouldn’t come ‘round, after, yeah?”It feels like it has been a long time coming, for all that the words surprise himself.In which some things reach their natural conclusion, at least according to some people.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Series: The desert is a waste of time [30]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1310750
Comments: 71
Kudos: 188





	The end crowns the means

It all goes to hell on a… well. 

Depends on your definition of hell, doesn’t it, and as far as Alfie’s particular brand of worship is concerned, hell in all it’s classically agreed-upon manifestations should be a non-issue, ultimately, so… it all goes downhill would probably be more accurate. Hills _do_ exist, Alfie thinks, it cannot be disputed. He’s been curled up behind quite a few of them in his time, trying not to get chewed to pieces by shrapnel.

Shrapnel in itself is a very fitting term as well, for what’s to come, everything falling into place beautifully, which is how you know you’ve got the right metaphor. Shame it’s doomed to exist only inside his own head, but what can you do. 

“Don’t know how long this is gonna to take,” Tommy says. He’s fixing his tie in the hallway mirror, despite the fact that it has been the very picture of perfection the whole afternoon and doesn’t need any fixing at all. 

Alfie has taken to leaning against the wall with one shoulder, arms crossed in front of his chest. All he meant to do was watch Tommy fuss with his general appearance before marching out the door, make fun of him a bit, but suddenly he can hear himself say, “Maybe you shouldn’t come ‘round, after, yeah?” 

It feels like it has been a long time coming, for all that the words surprise himself. 

Tommy shoots him a quick look, rolling his eyes, clearly unimpressed. 

“Won’t be _that_ late,” he says. “You know how those people are… two drinks and all of a sudden all the posh bastards start telling you _their_ idea of falling on hard times. I’ll be out before nine.”

“No, yeah, see, that’s…” Alfie says, hesitant and hating himself for it. Shrapnel, he thinks. Where is a fucking hill when you need one. “That’s not, I don’t mean. What I’m saying, right, is that you should stop coming ’round here,” and yeah, he thinks, that’s good, get rid of the _maybe,_ because this is not really supposed to be a suggestion. “...regardless of the time, mate.”

“What,” Tommy says, flat and unamused. He’s turned around now, facing Alfie. “The fuck are you on about?”

“This here situation,” Alfie says. Does a grandiose gesture with one arm, waving it between the two of them for emphasis. “All of it. It’s not… it’s neither here nor there, yeah? S’just not feasible, is it, not feasible at all, and also very not-practical, and also- unreasonable, right, very fuckin’ unreasonable if you think about it-”

“What,” Tommy says again and now he’s caught on, now he sounds sharp enough to cut right through that sentence. Didn’t take him long at all, of course it didn’t, Alfie knew it wouldn’t. 

“Listen, mate,” he says, and it almost feels like he’s watching himself from across the room, like he’s floating in some corner high above, detached and honestly a bit curious himself -- about what he might come up with, about how disastrously all of this might play out. “You heard me, yeah? I think we can both agree on the fact, yeah, that this here, right, has run its natural course.”

Tommy’s face has gone impassive -- hard like marble, not affected by anything or anybody. Untouchable. 

“And you just… _decided_ that right fucking now,” he says, very calm and very cold, like he’s some windowpane instead of a person. It’s obvious he’s suspecting Alfie of planning this for a while, which is… not _not_ true, exactly, but it still feels very unfair. It’s not like Alfie had a concrete schedule or anything, it was more of an… idea. A thought. And sure, he might’ve been carrying that thought around with him for a little while, let it marinade, but that doesn’t mean he’s _planned_ this out like some kind of assassination attempt. 

“Sure,” Alfie says. Shrugs for good measure. This has been a long time coming, he realizes. Not quite sure why he picked today of all days to have this conversation, but his gut has never failed him in situations like these (or at the very least, has always been able to stomach any consequences), so he won’t start questioning it now. 

Tommy’s probably offended, which… fair enough. 

It’s not like Alfie is having fun here, it’s not like he’s enjoying himself. Still, it won’t do to lose face over this. Tommy Shelby is moving up in the world, after all, big plans and big ambitions to match, and he’ll take himself out of reach sooner rather than later, and Alfie… well. Alfie will be the pining idiot left by the wayside, won’t he? Except he _won’t,_ he absolutely and categorically refuses to bloody do any of that, so… here they are. Got to shutter your windows while the thunderstorm is still on the horizon, don’t you, not when it’s already pouring down, threatening to flood your entire living room. 

Actually _read_ the writing on the wall every once in a while. 

“Sure,” Tommy echoes back, nodding, and oh, now he’s _furious,_ in that very self-contained way he has, where it’s all happening on the inside, but there’s so _much_ of it, it always seems like he could just strip away all of your flesh with an icy stare. “Sure. All right, then. Got everything you wanted out of this, eh?”

"Can’t complain," Alfie says, trying to sound casual.

 _“Can’t complain,”_ Tommy sneers, imitating him in a most unflattering fashion. “Yeah, I bet. Got the next one lined up already, eh?” 

“What?” Alfie says, taken aback and honestly a bit offended. The thought didn’t even occur to him; that they might be having this conversation because he replaced Tommy with somebody else, which… that’s probably a bit pathetic on his part, if you honestly think about it, but, well. It is what it is.

“No?” Tommy says mockingly, and he’s being deliberately cruel now, in that way he very rarely is. “Well, yeah, ‘course not. Should’ve guessed. Who else would even bother? Eh?” 

He raises one hand with his palm open towards Alfie, making a gesture that is supposed to encompass Alfie’s entire being, very clipped and precise, as Alfie’s standing there awkwardly, not sure if he’s supposed to uncross his arms or not. “Who else is gonna put up with all of that?”

Which… fucking _stings,_ Alfie is not even going to lie; made worse by how unexpected it is. (Even though it shouldn’t be, that’s his own bloody fault, because he started all of this and he really should’ve seen _something_ coming.) 

“So, you know,” Tommy says. “Good luck with that.”

Alfie’s not entirely sure if Tommy realizes that the blow landed or not, if he’s still trying to hurt or if he just wants to deepen the wound now, but he continues, “Best of fuckin’ luck trying to find somebody else, because that… it’s gonna be difficult. Not only gonna have to be attracted to… _all of that,”_ and if he does that fucking gesture again, like Alfie is some strange exhibit at a bloody zoo, Alfie might just have to try and knock his teeth out. “But put up with the entire rest of it, too.”

“Yeah, well, you know,” Alfie says -- and this is going downhill fast, he’s well aware of it, but he can’t seem to stop himself either. “Got some experience with that myself, don’t I, _putting up_ with things and all of that, yeah, seein’ as _some_ people are under the impression, yeah, that they’re worth so much more effort than they actually are, don’t they, trudging in here with all of their issues, thinkin’ they’re worth all of the fuckin’ _hassle-”_

Tommy’s gone pale now, expression ice cold, blinking rapidly, once, twice, which is the only thing that betrays any kind of reaction at all.

“Go to hell,” he says. “Yeah? You can go _straight-”_

“Well, nahhh, thank you,” Alfie says, raising his voice to talk right over him. “See, if I’d wanna do that? Yeah? I’d just sacrifice a fuckin’ evening, right, a _fuckin’ evening_ tryin’ to get you warmed up enough to get you off, wouldn’t I.”

Objectively speaking, it’s one of the worst things he could’ve said.

He’s well aware of that even as he says it. Easily one of the things that’ll have the most impact, do the most damage. Half-expects Tommy to start the usual name-calling now _(Jew, queer, insane)_ which wouldn’t be entirely undeserved, in all honesty, at least in the spirit of retaliation, but he doesn’t. Takes a step forward -- forcibly calm exterior, practically vibrating with tension underneath. Looks Alfie up and down once, calculating, like he’s never seen him before and is trying to take measure. 

Then he punches Alfie in the face. 

It’s a quick jab, aimed right at the center. It doesn’t come entirely unexpected, but he’s unexpectedly quick about it. Doesn’t turn his body much, so he hasn’t got all the momentum he could have, but still, his fist fucking _connects._ Alfie can feel his head rock back from the force of it, nose exploding with pain. 

Can hear himself make some harsh, snarling noise, not even trying to keep it down, and maneuvers himself upright again. Tommy’s still standing there, panting, shoulders squared and hands balled into fists by his sides, like he’s anticipating an actual fight. Alfie takes a long, labored breath, face throbbing with familiar pain. (Is this the worst he can do, Alfie thinks. This is _nothing_. Been there, done that, got the criminal empire to prove it.) 

There’s a moment of furious silence, both of them staring at each other. 

Tommy’s face is still right there, stupidly within reach, so Alfie backhands him. And sure, if asked he’d pretend that it’s nothing but reflex, self-defense, that sort of thing, except it _isn’t,_ of course it isn’t, it comes about three second too late for that. Still got all of his rings on, of course, so the hit is heavy, full of purpose. Tommy’s head twists to the side, upper lip splitting clean open. 

He barely reacts at all, even as blood starts dripping down his mouth and over his chin, like he didn’t even feel it. For one, endless second, everything seems possible, both of them breathing hard, the threat of escalation hanging over them, engulfing everything. 

Alfie, for some strange reason, is helplessly fixated on the blood, thinking about how Tommy will be furious if his clothes get stained. It’s a highly irrational thought, because why would that be even remotely important right now? It’s like he’s got no self-preservation instincts at all. Still, he’s got his hand in his pocket before he even realizes he’s doing it, fumbling for his handkerchief. 

Tommy goes ramrod straight at the sight of it, finally taking a step backwards when Alfie holds it out to him, and then another when Alfie makes an impatient noise and says “fuckin’ take it, bloody hell, gonna be drippin’ all over-” but it’s no use, Tommy has taken himself out of reach.

He’s just standing there, staring right at Alfie without actually looking him in the eyes for a long second, chin up, with blood smearing his mouth, the very picture of feigned dignity. Alfie, for whatever fucking reason, suddenly has the overwhelming urge to reach for him; grab his wrist hard enough to grind the bones together and pull him back in. There’d be resistance there, probably. Maybe he’d even try to hit Alfie again.

Alfie imagines it for one long, indulgent moment -- forcing him close again, telling him to forget about everything that just happened, _there, there,_ it’s all going to be fine. He’d be fucking _furious,_ Alfie can see it all play out now. 

“Right,” Tommy’s voice is saying and it takes Alfie a moment to realize he’s speaking again. Watches him press a hand against his mouth for a long, deliberate second, to stem the blood flow and assess the damage. Miraculously, his shirt collar has been spared somehow, looking as pristine as ever. 

He seems to want to say something and then visibly stop himself, and then he says, calm as a man discussing his drink order with a waiter, “If you don’t send me my suits, I’m keeping the money from the next rum shipment.”

“Birmingham,” Alfie says, a question, making it a point to sound disgusted. 

Tommy shrugs, which is all the confirmation Alfie is going to get, and then he turns and marches out the door. Brings a hand up to his face again as soon as he’s finished turning, and it’s because of the blood, Alfie knows, even though you could argue it looks like he might be wiping his eyes because he’s crying. 

That is _such_ an outlandish fucking idea it almost makes Alfie laugh with what might be a touch of hysteria. Which would be in bad taste, probably, all things considered, even after the front door has slammed shut, so he doesn’t. The house seems deadly quiet all of a sudden, no noises to be heard anywhere, not even Cyril moving around.

“Right,” Alfie mutters to himself. Feels like he might need to sit down for a minute or two, unreasonably exhausted, like he just spent the last few hours doing something physically taxing. Remembers he got punched in the face only when he tries to inhale deeply through his nose and there’s a sudden stab of pain; wincing, which only makes it worse. 

“Fuck,” he says, to nobody in particular, strangely feeling like he’s testing the waters somehow. It sounds resigned more than anything. It just occurs to him now that he might be bleeding as well. Should probably go to the bathroom and check. 

Blood stains, once you’ve let them dry down, are near impossible to get out. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I MISSED THIS POV SO MUCH. THIS ASSHOLE IS SO MUCH FUN TO WRITE I CAN’T EVEN TELL YOU.  
> This is not the grand finale, btw. We haven't reached the end. Nobody panic.  
>   
> (Title is a mix of the phrases "the end justifies the means" and "the end crowns the work", because... I'm back to my pretentious ways, I guess.)  
>   
>   
> I'm [bakedapplesauce](https://bakedapplesauce.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


End file.
